


Your Eyes are Lined in Pain

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Protective Dean Winchester, Sad Dean, Scared Sam, Teen Dean, Teen Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 04:59:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4378046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timestamp to the God, It's Me, Dean 'verse<br/>In which Dean attempts to be a good brother, but Sammy's making things difficult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Eyes are Lined in Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song Lydia, by Highly Suspect. Give it a listen, great song, great album.

“Sammy. You’ve been in charge of the laundry for like, what, six years?”

Sam’s hair hangs in his face as he raps bruised knuckles on the kitchen table. The index finger on his free hand drags across the words of his AP Government textbook.

Dean leans over and snags the pencil that’s resting just behind Sam’s ear.

“I needed that!”

Dean snorts, tossing the utensil at the back of Sam’s head. “Sure egghead. If you could drag your head out of the inner-workings of the Judicial Branch, there, I asked you a question.”

Sam narrows his eyes and grunts in exasperation. “Hurry up, Dean. The AP exam is in June--” his lip curls here “and the test’s the same, Dean, no matter what state you take it in.”

Dean flips his brother’s bowed head off. Little shit’s been more angry than usual, and that’s a feat, even for his inventive little brother. “I just wanted to know,” Dean offers, cursing lowly as his thumb brushes against the hot burner on the stove, “where the hell my Metallica shirt went.”

Sam doesn’t move a muscle, knuckles still smacking (annoyingly) against the wood. “How should I know, Dean? You have like thirty of ‘em. Just wear a different one.” Dean slides Sam’s grilled cheese on the bright yellow paper plate with a flourish only he sees. Looks grimly down at the meal, knowing Sam will look up at him reproachfully for the lack of greenery

_vegetables, Dean, they have a name for a reason, use it_

on his plate. Dean sticks his thumb in his mouth, assuaging the slight burn there. He turns to face his brother fully, white t-shirt sticking faintly to his skin. He rests the small of his back against the kitchen cabinet, eyeing Sammy absently.

He hears Sam’s faint hiss of air when he catches Dean’s glance, Sam’s eyes zeroed in on his face. There’s a second, a fleeting unguarded moment, where Sammy looks a little bit like he’s eight again. Gap-toothed grin and graham cracker dust smeared all over his chin, and, subsequently, Dean’s shirt.

Sammy’s face shutters closed, again, and he snorts in Dean’s direction. “Gonna let that cool all day or are we eating dinner?” Dean pops his thumb from his mouth and slides Sammy the plate. “There ya go, your highness. Need anything else? Foot rub? Unswerving loyalty?”

Sam squints at him like he’s a particularly nasty cockroach he’d like nothing more than to obliterate. Dean smacks his ass down in the chair across from Sammy, his own grilled cheese far more charred than his brother’s. Knows Sammy hates burnt bread.

_Don’ like the dark, Dean, take it ’way_

Gummy little hands making a mess in his futile efforts to clean the bread to his satisfaction. Yeah, Dean learned the hard way to make sure Sammy’s bread-related foods are always golden-brown. “S’mmy.” Sam’s grip on his pencil tightens sharply as he glances up at Dean. He opens his mouth, probably about to give Dean a lecture about chewing with his damned mouth shut, but apparently resigns himself to accepting his older brother’s uncouth manners.

Dean grins to himself, cheese peeking through each bite, in triumph. “What, Dean.” “Back to my shirt. You got no idea where it could be?” Sam rests his forehead on an open palm. “None, Dean, why don’t you go freaking look for it instead of bothering me about it?” Dean swallows, rests engine-dirty hands against his last clean white shirt.

“Fuck,” he exclaims, lifting his shirt to see if he’s got any stains on it. He hears his brother’s derisive snort and strives manfully to ignore it. He’s twenty, now. Can’t keep fighting Sammy over the remote.

“S’just, Sam, man, it’s one of my favorites. I’m talking, Master of Puppets.” Dean pauses, dreamily, hem of his shirt caught in between his index finger and thumb. “You wouldn’t remember, Sammy, came out in 1986. You were four.”

Dean releases his shirt and scoops up Sam’s empty plate (ate it, didn’t he?) and shoves it on top of his own. “Man, original art and all.” Dean tosses the trash out and rubs a hand over his eye as he jerks open the fridge, sticking his entire head inside. “SANUH-TARIUM” he bellows, suddenly, just because he knows he can.

Is prepared for the balled up piece of paper Sam throws at his back, braces himself for it. Dean grunts unenthusiastically at the Budweiser he plucks from the fridge, and pulls the white lighter out of his pocket to uncap it. “Best album by ‘em, Sam. Rock genius.”

Sam looks up completely, then, face sardonic. “You were eight, Dean. You don’t remember it much better than I do.” Dean chokes on his beer, freckles standing out in stark relief, face stricken. “Samuel Winchester, you take that back. I was born knowing Metallica chords.”

Sam’s eyes sparkle, the tiniest bit, and something thick and cumbersome eases in Dean’s chest. He tips his bottle in Sammy’s direction. “You oughta be thanking me for making sure you had such good music in your life. Damn patron saint.” Sam flexes, Dean’s hand-me-down Holy Diver shirt riding up.

Dean’s smile falters.

Sam needs new shirts, and Dad’s been gone a week and a half, nest of vampires in Ft. Lauderdale. Sammy’d waxed poetical for hours about the brilliance of hiding in plain sight--who’d search for vamps in the sunny skies of Florida, Dean, think about it.

And all Dean can see is Sam’s outgrowing his shirts, his shoes and his life.

Sam tugs the fabric down self-consciously, perceptive little fucker probably picking up on every shift in Dean’s mood. Dean slides Sammy the last of his beer, only a third left, not enough to even give Sammy a proper buzz.

His brother inspects it, sniffs around the rim like Dean’s gone and thrown holy water in it. “Didn’t touch it, Sam, how could I? You watched me drink the damn thing right here!” Sam sniffs, contemptuously, mouth twisted in a teasing smirk. “I dunno, Dean, who knows where your mouth has been.”

Dean hoists himself onto the chipped countertop with a habitual grunt. “Wouldn’t you like to know, what’s that cute little ‘megas name we met in west Texas? Shirley? Shanley? Shady?” Dean bites his lower lip in concentration.

Sam guffaws then, forcing what little beer he’s consumed back out of his nostrils. “Shady, Dean? You really think you hooked up with a girl who went by Shady.” Sam’s laughing so hard now he’s got to set the bottle down or else risk breaking it into little shards. Dean can hear the Alpha rumble in his throat, and it sends pleasureable sparks down his spine.

Loves Sammy happy. Loves the way he can’t seem to regain control of those oppositional limbs, legs dancing everywhere as he tries unsuccessfully to hold himself together. Dean grins to himself, mindful not to seem too obvious.

He slides down from the counter and walks around Sammy’s chair, brushing his fingers through his brother’s hair, idly.

Sam stops laughing like a switch clicked off, plunging the room into darkness.

Dean clenches his free hand into a fist. He knew that.

He _knew_ that.

First rule of loving Sammy.

Don’t touch him.

Learned that the hard way, Sam was fourteen and a half, 6’0 of newly declared Alpha, all skin and bones, little else.

Knobby knees and an Alpha baritone that confused Dean’s Omega so often it was criminal. Wanted to defer, submit, it was his brother, he was pack. He owed it to Sammy to show his loyalty. He couldn’t though, not properly. He knew Sammy couldn’t scent him.

Dean didn’t even know what he smelled like, himself. Knew it was so much a scent as it was an absence of one, the lack of. Sammy had told him, years ago, when Dean had come back home aching between the legs and blind with exhaustion, that he smelled a little bit like a dying fire.

Dean understood, in the back of his head, that he must be some kind of embarrassment to his brother. Dean had had plenty of years to get used to being defective, used to the strange looks he sometimes received when his scent wasn’t covered by Sam’s, or Dad’s.

But when Sam was fourteen and a half, and he started snarling when Dean got too close, jerked back if Dean lingered a little too long, that was when Dean realized he was offensive. Recognized the rejection by instinct. Sammy’d look at him, hazel eyes livid and apologetic, a strange concoction.

_M’Sorry, Dean, I don’t know how to control it_

Dean didn’t realize he’d stopped, motionless, hand dangling uselessly by his side. The sound of Sammy’s chair dragging across the linoleum propelled him into movement, and he stepped away, dodging his brother as Sammy picked up his textbooks, organized binders in his arms.

“Getting tired, Dean. I’ll see you after school tomorrow, right?” Dean felt his chest settle, right back into that old familiar feeling. And Sammy, five years old again, sticky fingers (sticky with what) brushing against Dean’s Ninja Turtles shirt, right on Raph, he might add.

_Be waiting wight outside school, tomawo, Dean?_

Gold and green swirling together, long lashes clumped with tears from earlier. Fingers tangled in Dean’s hair, now, as he asked, squirming in his arms even though he’d asked to be picked up.

_Gettin’ too big for this, Sammy._

“Yeah. I’ll be waitin.’”

**Author's Note:**

> Shoot me a comment if you'd like more timestamps, or you like this one!


End file.
